


Always Late

by bluebatwings



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Death with a capital D, Pre-Slash, slightly based off an episode of The Twilight Zone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-08
Updated: 2017-02-08
Packaged: 2018-09-22 22:57:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9628892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebatwings/pseuds/bluebatwings
Summary: “Death,” he says by way of introduction, “but you can call me Arthur. You and I have an appointment at midnight, Mr. Eames.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> I got the idea for this from the episode "One for the Angels" of _The Twilight Zone_ after it made me think, _Arthur would be very efficient as Death. Eames would not be very efficient at dying._ This is very loosely based on that episode (and unbeta'd, so please excuse any mistakes).
> 
> Title is from my ultimate Arthur/Eames song, "A Little Less Sixteen Candles, A Little More 'Touch Me'" by Fall Out Boy

“Mr. Eames.”

Eames flips the lights on when he enters the flat and Arthur keeps his carefully schooled expression in place.

“Well, hello there. I’m… not sure how you got in here, but I’m certainly not complaining.”

Arthur takes stock of several things very quickly: Eames’s subtle hand movement to the gun in his waistband, his casual readiness to make for any of the five available exits, and the frankly hideous shirt Eames is wearing. Arthur pictures a chest of drawers filled with similarly abhorrent shirts and has to conceal a shudder. 

“Mr. Eames,” he repeats. “It’s nice to finally meet you in person.”

Eames grins. It's disconcerting. _Grinning_ is not generally how people respond to Arthur’s sudden, unwelcome appearance. 

“I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage, darling,” Eames says. “You seem to know me, but I don’t believe I know you-- and I would remember you.”

Arthur clutches the small journal he holds tightly; he has been waiting for this moment for a long time.

“I’ve had quite a few appointments with you in the past, and you have managed to miss every single one. Very effectively fucking up my timetable, may I add.”

“And so you’ve come to find me, eh? Sorry, love, can’t keep a meeting I wasn’t aware I had.”

Flippant. Add it to the list, along with _grinning_ , of things that Arthur is beginning to hate. There are _rules_ for this kind of thing, _structure_ , and Arthur doesn’t appreciate so much deviation in one day, and especially not from one man. He glances down at his journal, and then at the watch on his wrist-- still a good half hour before midnight (Arthur had chosen midnight out of convenience; this Mr. Eames has proved enough trouble in the past for Arthur to think about working with anything but round numbers). Arthur arrived early in Eames’s darkened flat, taken the most obvious seat, worn his most serious expression, and waited like that with the lights off until Eames had finally shown up. (Eames had taken far longer to come home than Arthur had expected, leaving Arthur to sit, in the dark, staring at the wall for quite some time, but he is determined to get this right, dammit.) This man is not going to slip through his fingers again.

Arthur glares, a look that has literally stopped the hearts of thousands; Eames cracks a smile. Arthur is determined to see this man die.

“Now that we’ve finally become acquainted, you’ll be coming with me soon. You might want to settle any unfinished business now, while you’ve still got the time.”

Expressive eyebrow movement-- added to Arthur’s quickly growing list.

“Normally,” Eames says, “whenever devastatingly attractive strangers ask me to go away with them, I’m all for it-- what’s life without a little mystery, I say, a little danger? But I’ve got to ask. What’s this about?”

Arthur sighs heavily. Of course Eames is going to make him explain, make him spell it out word by word, probably. 

“You still don’t understand, Mr. Eames, do you?”

Before the blink of an eye, Arthur moves himself from his place in the armchair to the arm of the couch closer to Eames. He crosses his legs and snaps his journal shut, drawing Eames’s eyes to his sudden reappearance. _Awe_. There it is. Now _that_ is what Arthur was looking for.

“Well, that’s a nifty trick,” Eames says, because _of course_. Arthur rolls his eyes.

“Death,” he says by way of introduction, “but you can call me Arthur. You and I have an appointment at midnight, Mr. Eames.”

There’s a pause. Arthur is gratified to see the wary expression suddenly on Eames’s face.

“Death?” he says, and then looks Arthur up and down. “Dresses like that?”

“What’s wrong with how I’m dressed?” Arthur demands. This happens to be a very nice suit, one of his best, in fact. He straightens a cuff, indignant.

“Like some posh-- And he’s called _Arthur_?”

Eames chuckles and leans back against the doorframe, crossing his arms. “This is some trip. And I don’t even remember taking anything!”

Arthur frowns, harder than before. “This is no drug-induced hallucination, Mr. Eames. And, from what I remember, you don’t--” he pauses, holding up a finger as he consults his book. “Yes, you haven’t even touched illegal substances in over five years.”

Eames’s eyes narrow on Arthur’s journal.

“How did…? That’s in your book there?”

“I’ve done my research, Mr. Eames. I’m very thorough.”

“So, who are you working for then?” Eames’s voice is suddenly defensive, his back straightening, his fingers inching again towards his concealed weapon. Like that’ll do any good.

“Excuse me?”

“That bastard Simpson, right? Couldn’t finish the job himself, had to send some grunt in a suit.”

Arthur stands, one strong, fluid motion (that he’d perfected _years_ ago) and tries to keep the offended tone out of his voice as he says,

“I am not a _hitman_ , if that’s what you’re implying. I believe you misunderstand. Death. With a capital _D_. You’ve managed to elude me through charm and sheer luck long enough, but no more. Not tonight. There is nothing you could do, nothing you could say, _nowhere you could go_ to escape this. You are on my list, and I don’t need another blemish on my record because of _you_.”

Eames says, “Prove it.”

It catches Arthur… rather off guard. “What?”

“Well, come on, then, prove it.” Eames crosses his arms over his chest and cocks his head to the side, giving Arthur a sort of leering smile. Arthur gapes. “Mr. _Death_ , with a capital _D_ , let’s see what you can do, then.”

Arthur tries to bury his surprise, but he can’t help saying, “That’s… not how people usually react.”

“Oh no? What do they do?”

Arthur wants to say something intimidating. He wants Eames shaking in his boots. He wants to say, _“They beg me for mercy.”_ But instead, he tells the truth.

“They usually ask why. Why them, why now, that sort of thing. They certainly don’t ask for a _demonstration_.”

Eames chuckles. “Well, I know why me and why now, like you said, my time is well up. So why not let me in on a few tricks of the trade? That is, _if_ you really are who you say you are.”

Okay, so. Even though Arthur would never admit to it out loud, he does tend to have a bit of a… _flair_ for the dramatic, for lack of a more suitable term. He had said _Death_ , and it isn’t like that’s untrue; if one were to look up Death’s job description it would basically be what Arthur does on a day-to-day basis. But he may have been a bit misleading, maybe implying that he is _it_ , the be-all and end-all, the one and only. The fact is, there is no one _Death entity_. It’s an organization, like any other job, lots of employees with the same job title-- it simply wouldn’t be feasible for one person to handle all the dying that goes on every day. But to admit to this _would_ kind of feel like being a hitman, so he keeps the information to himself and thinks, _You want a show? Let’s put on a show._

He moves himself to the window at his right in an instant. It’s one of the perks of the job-- _teleportation_ is an imperfect term for it, but it is something very like, and hugely convenient. He waits until Eames finds him again (with a slightly shocked expression, _good_ ), and then he reaches out a hand to a potted plant sitting on the windowsill. Making sure Eames’s eyes are completely on him, Arthur reaches out a single finger and places it on a leaf. The healthy green of the leaf immediately begins to change to brown where his finger connects. Death spreads from that point throughout the leaf until it finally overtakes the entire plant. When Arthur removes his finger the plant slumps over, lifeless and brown like it had been neglected for weeks. Arthur takes a moment to be a little surprised that this man had kept a plant alive for any amount of time at all.

When Arthur looks at him again, Eames’s eyes lock on Arthur’s, serious and scrutinizing. 

“Impressive,” he says, voice low. “I’ll admit it. It’s a good trick.”

This becomes more and more tedious by the second. Arthur crosses his arms and says,

“It’s not a _trick_ , Mr. Eames, I am not a magician and you are not a rabbit that I am going to pull out of my hat.”

“What an image.”

“I’ve come here tonight to see that your life ends, precisely at midnight, and that your soul gets to wherever the hell it’s going afterwards. And then, I will very gladly be washing my hands of you.”

Eames doesn’t have an immediate rejoinder, and that catches Arthur more off guard than if he had spoken. Instead, he gets a sort of look in his eye that Arthur can’t quite identify. 

“Soul, huh?”

Ugh, Arthur really shouldn’t have said that. He hates that part of his job. Most of the job is great, it’s numbers and planning and preparing, at which Arthur excels. But when people start to get spiritual, philosophical, metaphysical-- when they start asking him _questions_ \-- they enter into annoyingly unknown territory. He can’t answer those questions, because he doesn’t know, and he hates when he has to admit that he doesn’t know. Which is yet another advantage to getting the job done efficiently, being frugal with time and words, and doing it all with a _please hold all questions until the end_ kind of attitude. 

However, as with everything else, Eames is turning out to be a special case in this area. He asks no questions, and yet Arthur feels almost compelled to answer.

“I don’t have all the details, it’s not something I can get a crash course in beforehand. But this comes for everyone, and no one can say that they went through life not knowing this day would eventually come for them.”

“Truer words,” Eames says, and Arthur scowls. Arthur wants to finish this job, yes, but Eames’s carelessness about the fact that he is going to die is somehow grating. Arthur sees death day in and day out, and most of the time? It’s nothing, a blip on the radar. Not earth-shattering, not hugely important in the grand scheme of things. That is, to everyone but the one on his list. Eames should feel _something_ about the fact that at midnight, not long from now, his life will end. He will cease to be. He didn’t ask for this, so it should _matter_ to him.

“Darling, your face will freeze that way if you keep at it much longer,” Eames says, and then he fucking _runs his fingers_ along the crinkle between Arthur’s eyes. Arthur blinks in shock, but doesn’t step back. 

“Why aren’t you more upset about this?” Arthur demands without really meaning to.

“What? Oh, dying?”

“ _Yes_ , dying, _obviously_ ,” Arthur snaps, and then he opens his journal and begins frantically flipping through pages.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going to figure out why you’re like this,” Arthur says. Arthur has studied Eames, ever since their first missed appointment, but he’s still a mystery to Arthur, and Arthur doesn’t appreciate loose ends. “There must be some detail about your life that made you this way.” Eames laughs.

“Hm, if that is true, I’ll bet you’re not going to find it in that book. And I am a betting man, so I’ll give you odds on that, if you’d like.”

“There’s nothing you care about leaving behind? Or… no _one_?”

Arthur is not generally sentimental, so he honestly has no idea what’s prompting this outburst. Maybe he had expected more from the man who had eluded him so many times. Maybe this was just a… disappointment. A let down of expectations. _I expected more of you_ , he thinks, but that’s not quite it. _You’re giving up too easily_ , and that’s closer maybe, but still, no. _Who will I chase after now?_

The thought doesn’t sit well with him, but it’s the closest to the truth and he knows it. It’s unsettling. This man has thrown his life out of whack for so long, and now it’ll finally be a turned page in his book, an item checked off his list, it will be a fucking _relief_ when he puts all of this behind him. Arthur is a busy man, and Eames is a distraction.

A terribly interesting, if annoying, distraction.

Arthur has been Death-with-a-capital-D for a long time now, and it has always suited him just fine. He does his work, does it well, but that’s admittedly not very difficult to do anymore. Eames has proven to be the first real challenge that Arthur has encountered in-- he doesn't want to think about how long. He weighs the journal in his hand as he eyes Eames, who is being suspiciously quiet.

“What would you do next?” Arthur asks. “If I weren’t here. If your name wasn’t on my list.”

Eames quirks an eyebrow. Arthur waits.

“Never been one to plan ahead,” Eames finally says with a shrug. “Something fantastic though, I can guarantee that.” He’s looking at Arthur in a thoughtful way Arthur isn’t sure he likes.

Or maybe he does. Arthur makes a snap decision for what is possibly the first time in his life.

“Would you like to live, Mr. Eames?”

“Well, I would be an idiot to say anything but yes.”

Arthur nods. “Me too,” he says, and Eames’s eyes show surprise. Arthur enjoys surprising Eames. And then Eames grins.

“So do it.”

Arthur nods again, once, and puts his journal in the inner pocket of his suit coat.

“I know all the best places, if you’re interested in accompanying me,” Eames tells him, and it’s insane, and so very out of Arthur’s control, and he’s definitely going to get fired. He says,

“I think I’ll take you up on that.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> I'm on [twitter](https://twitter.com/bluebatwings)!


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